Sakshi Ki Sadhana #2

I had spoken a little to you about why there is no taste of bliss in human life. This morning we shall talk about the fundamental basis of this blindness.

Many centuries ago, on the streets of Greece, a man was seen. In the blaze of noon, under the full light of the sun, he wandered with a lantern in his hand. People asked him, "What madness is this? In broad daylight, with a lantern—whom are you searching for?"

The man said, "I am searching for a man who has eyes."

That man was a most astonishing fakir of his time—Diogenes. Diogenes has long been dead, and all his life he kept searching, lantern in hand, for the man who had eyes. But he did not find him.

Later, a rumor arose in America that Diogenes had returned and was roaming there again with his lantern. Someone asked him, "It has been a thousand, fifteen hundred years—have you still not found a man who has eyes?"

Diogenes said, "I have not found such a man; only one solace I have—that my lantern is still with me and no one has stolen it! And now I have even given up the hope that such a man will be found."

But we all have eyes. If someone says he searches for a man with eyes and cannot find one, we are surprised. Yet those who know will say: our eyes can see only things, only matter, not That which is Paramatma. Our eyes can see the most earthly, not the unearthly. And our eyes can see others—but not ourselves.

With such eyes, the business of life may go on, but the meaning of life is never attained. With such eyes we somehow grope and stumble to the door of death, but we do not arrive at the door of life. One who travels relying on these eyes reaches nowhere except death. However he may run, whatever he may attempt, in the end he is found standing at the door of death. These eyes do not seem to take us to the gate of life—of the supreme Life. From birth onward, each day we slip toward death. And whatever arrangements of safety and security we contrive, death does not let itself be avoided.

Perhaps all our arrangements are attempts to save ourselves from it. We gather wealth, we gather fame, we gather power—hoping that with power, position, and wealth we will build a wall and save ourselves from death. But none of our devices prove meaningful; rather, the very devices by which we try to escape death push us more swiftly toward it. And this is not the story of one person; it is the story of all—those who have been, those who are, and those who will be.

Yet a few people stand apart from this story; a few have proved exceptions.

On the night Christ was arrested, and in the morning he was to be crucified, one of his friends, Luke, asked him, "Are you not afraid? Death will come tomorrow. Is there no turmoil, no anxiety in your heart?"

Christ said, "From the day I looked within, death disappeared. Those who kill me will be in the illusion that they have killed me—but I will not die."

A fakir named Mansoor was hanged on the gallows, nails hammered into his hands. People asked him, "Is there any final word you wish to say?"

Mansoor said, "Only this: may God shatter the illusion you live in."

They asked, "What illusion?"

Mansoor said, "That you die—or that you can kill. That which is in the Life of life is immortal."

But we do not know such immortality. We know only the death happening all around us every day—and we know too that we ourselves are constantly sliding toward death. One breath we take in, and somewhere a man falls to the ground and dies. A breath goes in—and someone dies; a breath goes out—and someone dies. Each moment death is happening all around, and we stand in its midst—whatever we do, wherever we run.

There was a king who dreamed one night. In the dream he saw a dark shadow place its hand upon his shoulder and say, "Meet me tomorrow at the precise time and the precise place. I am Death, and I am coming to take you. Before the sun sets tomorrow, be present at the exact spot."

He awoke in panic. He summoned the great astrologers of his realm and said, "I saw such a dream!" He called for interpreters of dreams—the Freuds of that time—and asked, "What does this dream mean? What shall I do? For in the dream I received the news that before evening falls today death will seize me."

They pondered greatly and said, "To waste time thinking would be an error. Take your swiftest horse and flee. Here in the capital—Damascus—your friends and wise men advise: take the fastest horse and run; get as far as you can before sunset. Apart from this, we deem it unwise to lose even another moment. If we go on speculating, analyzing, interpreting, searching the scriptures—dusk will come, death will arrive. Then who will be responsible?"

The king lost not a moment. He called for the swiftest horse from his stables, mounted, and fled. He had no leisure even to say two words of farewell to his friends, his wife, his children. Weeping, they bid him goodbye. Yet he felt some comfort: his horse was very fast; before evening he would be hundreds of miles away.

Indeed, he rode hundreds of miles away. That day he neither ate nor drank, nor paused for rest for a single moment—he just kept spurring his horse on and on. At last, just before sunset, he stopped beneath a bush in a garden far away. As he was tying his horse, Death stood behind him and said, "Friend, I was anxious—your death was to occur so far away. Who knew whether you would arrive or not? But you have come to the right place at the right time. Your horse is marvelous."

All life long we run, we flee—and in the end we arrive precisely where we were running from, where we sought safety. And for which we raced our horses—of fame, of wealth, of power, of position—there we arrive. Then death thanks us: your race was excellent, your horses very swift—you have arrived exactly at the right place at the right time.

This life that ultimately brings us to the door of death must surely be erroneous, full of mistake. If life were right, it should bring us to the gate of the supreme Life. Only very few fortunate ones arrive there. And when they do not, there is but one reason: we are, in some way, blind to the inner life—the real life. Matter is all we can see, not Paramatma. And until Paramatma is seen—until consciousness is beheld beyond matter, until the door opens to formless experience beyond form—know this: the eyes are closed. Eyes that see only form do not truly see; eyes that see only solid objects do not truly see. Along with all this form, something formless pervades; along with this body, something bodiless; within all this matter, something else abides. For the eyes that see That, it is necessary that they not be blind.

Last night I said: shraddha and belief make one blind. The statement may sound inverted, for for thousands of years we have been taught that without shraddha, without belief, God cannot be known. I would say to you: for one who believes, for one of shraddha, there is no way to know God. I say this for a reason. The mind that believes, the mind of shraddha, becomes blind. Shraddha means: accept what we do not know; say yes to what we have not seen; place trust in what we have not heard; let what is not our experience become our conviction—that is the meaning of shraddha. If I say, "God is," and you believe it, that is shraddha. It may be knowledge for me; but if my knowledge becomes your knowledge, then for you it is shraddha. Perhaps I have known, I tell you something and you accept it—but it is not known to you. You fall into blindness; you strengthen the blind forces within. Shraddha blinds. And whatever blinds cannot lead to God. For That, eyes are needed that are utterly open, utterly radiant; eyes filled with a great, unbounded light. For That, the darkness and blindness of shraddha is not the path.

Yet we have been taught to believe—and we have believed. The peoples of the whole earth have been doing shraddha in this or that way. On this earth we agree on little else, but in one thing we are unanimous: in the direction of blind belief. Rarely is a person born who refuses shraddha. The moment one refuses shraddha, his search begins—his inquiry begins. The moment one is bound within the circle of shraddha, his search ends. We search only when we are unwilling to accept another’s word. Then the life-energy awakens, then we move forward into inquiry—our journey of search begins.

I am not saying be irreverent. Irreverence too is but a form of shraddha. I am saying: be not blind—neither in shraddha nor in non-shraddha. One man says, "God is"—we call him a believer. Another says, "There is no God"—we call him an unbeliever. To me both are blind. For he who says, "God is," has not known; and he who says, "God is not," has not known. Both accept without knowing. Whoever accepts without knowing—whether theist or atheist—has shraddha of a sort, and shraddha makes one blind.

Theists are blind, and atheists as well. Whether you become a theist or an atheist depends on the propaganda-circle into which you were born. If born in a Hindu home, one set of shraddhas will be created; if born in a Muslim home, then another; if born in Soviet Russia, then a third—of atheism. All these shraddhas are born of the surrounding climate, of propaganda, of ideological winds; they are not your knowledge. And whoever clings to them has no need to seek knowledge any longer—he does not search at all.

Search begins only when a person refuses to accept any doctrines coming from outside. I am not saying he rejects them either. Understand this fine distinction. He neither rejects nor accepts. He says, "Whatever is outside, whatever others say, is not what I know. How can I say it is true? How can I say it is false?" He keeps himself free. He does not bind himself in any insistence. He does not clutch any chain. He says, "I do not know. I do not know whether God is or is not. I do not know whether the Hindu is right or the Muslim or the Christian or the Jain. I do not know. I am utterly ignorant; and in this ignorance, any insistence I make would be dangerous."

The insistences of the ignorant have proved very dangerous. Religions fight across the world because of the insistences of the ignorant who know nothing. About matters they do not know, they are ready to burn mosques and temples; ready to destroy scriptures or to fabricate new ones; ready to kill hundreds of thousands—or to die—over matters they know nothing about.

Shraddhas seized in ignorance have proved suicidal—self-destructive. Religious people have fought across the world. Can a religious person truly fight? Religious people have murdered. Can a religious person murder? Religious people have broken temple idols, burned mosques. Can a religious person do this? And if the religious do this, what is left for the irreligious to do? What will the irreligious do then?

No, it was not the religious man who did this—it was those with shraddha seized in ignorance. Ignorance and shraddha together become very dangerous.

But remember: it is precisely because of ignorance that we enter into shraddha. Very few have the courage to accept the truth "I do not know." I repeat: very few have the courage to accept the truth that they do not know. And one who lacks this courage should understand that the search for truth will not become his life. This is the primary courage, the first step—to know that "I do not know." Whoever accepts his ignorance becomes free of all kinds of shraddhas. Whoever wishes to avoid accepting his ignorance, and wants to show, "No, I know," to satisfy this hollow ego—he grabs some kind of shraddha and says, "God is" or "God is not," "There is Atman" or "There is no Atman," "There is rebirth" or "There is no rebirth"—and among these many nonsenses he grabs one and begins to repeat it. And since he does not know, he is weak; therefore if you do not agree with him, he picks up the sword—because he has no other way to persuade. He himself does not know; his only method of persuasion is to lift the sword. Or to gather a crowd. Or to increase his numbers.

That is why the Hindu worries that his numbers not decrease; the Muslim worries to increase his numbers; the Christian worries—"drink more souls!" All religions worry that their numbers grow and not diminish. Numbers are power—the power of the sword, the power of the crowd. Only on that power can we support our shraddhas seized in ignorance. We have no other support.

Where there is the support of knowing, no support of power or violence is ever embraced. Where ignorance is, there you find such supports. The weak become angry; the weak are ready to fight. That religious people have always fought is evidence that weak, ignorant people have forcibly adopted others’ knowledge as their own. And then how many dangers arise—beyond accounting. How many were slaughtered—beyond accounting. How many were burned—beyond accounting. And at the root of those who burned is shraddha rooted in ignorance.

The first thing to understand: any shraddha we clutch in our ignorance becomes a bondage for us. We will not be able to rise above it. In trying to rise beyond it, our very life-trembling begins, fear arises. Why? Fear arises because—as is quite natural—whoever sets out to search, if he has clung to any shraddha, that shraddha will break before the search begins. Otherwise how will search begin?

Search can begin only when I am impartial, when my mind is unprejudiced—without any bias. But we are all filled with bias; and then we say we wish to search for truth and to know life—yet we are unwilling to drop our biases. Our biases grip us very deeply. Bias is the greatest bondage in man’s consciousness. And biases arise—from shraddhas, beliefs.

Before a man truly sets out to search what is, he must become free of all biases, all beliefs, all shraddhas. He must break these chains. No one else imposes these chains upon us—we bind ourselves. Therefore, to break them we are always free. No one else binds us—we ourselves accept them. For security we embrace them. There is insecurity in ignorance. Not-knowing feels insecure. No path is found, no shore is found—so we grab the shore of borrowed knowledge to have a prop, a safety, to feel "I too know."

But any knowledge seized in ignorance—how can it be knowledge? If the one who seizes is ignorant, whatever he seizes will become ignorance in his hands. In a state of ignorance, no knowledge can be knowledge. If an ignorant man grabs the Gita, the Gita becomes dangerous; if he grabs Mahavira, Mahavira becomes dangerous; if he grabs Mohammed, Mohammed becomes dangerous. Whatever the ignorant man, whose very breath is poison, grabs—that poison spreads there. Whatever the ignorant have seized has turned dangerous. The first thing to know: the ignorant must destroy ignorance within, not clutch knowledge. When ignorance is destroyed, knowledge is born within. If he clutches knowledge while ignorance remains within, then above there will be talk of knowledge.

What is a pundit but this? Within—ignorance; above—talk of knowledge. Within—dense darkness; above—scripture. Within—utter night; above—mantra and meshes of words and shastras. When you pass through that net, you find a completely ignorant man standing there.

Better than a pundit is a simple, straightforward ignoramus—for he at least feels his ignorance. One who feels his ignorance feels pain, anguish—"How can I dissolve this ignorance?" But one who loses the very sense of his ignorance, who clings to hollow knowledge and thinks he has known—he is drowned. Ignorance remains within, thin knowledge outside. Perhaps never has a pundit known truth. He cannot. Words are heavy upon him; others’ doctrines sit on his life like stones. He knows talk, knows theories, knows argument—he can argue, quarrel, offer twenty-five expositions—but he cannot know.

The first condition of knowing is that he neither accept nor reject another’s knowledge. What will be the inner state when we neither accept nor reject others’ knowledge? It will be very simple, very humble, full of deep humility—because we will know that we do not know.

Someone said to Socrates, "People say you are the wisest."

Socrates said, "Tell them they are deluded. For as I began to know, I discovered I am very ignorant. The more I knew, the more my ignorance stood revealed. Now I know only one thing—that I know nothing."

If this state of consciousness arises, a revolution happens.

Are our minds prepared to agree to being ignorant? We are ignorant—we need not become so. Only the fact must be accepted: we are ignorant. Do you truly know that God is? Do you truly know there is an Atman within your body? Have you ever had a glimpse of Atman? Any touch? Any encounter with God? Have you ever seen or known anything beyond matter? Outside the circle of death, have you ever had even a glimpse of immortality?

No—we have heard words, read scriptures, listened to gurus—and we cling to them. Clinging to them, we will be finished—without ever knowing that which could have been known and was forever close by.

Before life is finished, this enslaved state of the mind must end. The fact must become very clear before our minds that there is no basis for what we claim to know.

What will happen by this? Why do I insist so much that ignorance must be made clear?

Because the moment ignorance becomes clear, the possibility of a revolution begins in your life. If, as we sit here, fire breaks out all around, one to whom it is visible cannot sit quietly at ease. One who does not see the fire will sit quietly, peacefully.

If the fact becomes visible that within me there is deep darkness and ignorance—then that ignorance, that darkness will not let you sit in peace. Its pain will become a door, a path, to free yourself from it.

If illness is detected, there is a spontaneous longing for health within us. If illness is not detected, that longing does not become active. If ignorance is detected, there arises a deep thirst for knowledge. The awareness of ignorance alone fills one with the thirst for knowledge. But those who clutch false knowledge—their thirst for knowing grows dim, dwindles, and slowly is extinguished.

For the thirst for knowing to arise, the keenest awareness of ignorance is necessary. The odd thing is: ignorance is present; it does not need to be brought. Only awareness is not present. Ignorance is present; awareness is not. If awareness is joined to ignorance—and it will be, when we break this mesh and web of false knowledge. This does not need years of labor to "break knowledge."

A fakir rose in the morning and called a disciple near. He said, "Last night I had a dream. Can you interpret it?"

The young man did not even ask what the dream was. He said, "Please wait—I’ll bring water, wash your face and hands."

He went to fetch water. He returned with it. As the fakir was washing his hands and face, another disciple passed by. He called to him too: "Listen, last night I had a dream—can you interpret it?"

He said, "If you have washed your hands and face, shall I bring tea?"

The fakir said, "You two are wonderful—you have both interpreted my dream. Had you interpreted my dream in words today, I would have expelled you from the ashram. Whoever interprets dreams is foolish. A dream came, and one brought water to wash, so that you awaken properly and it does not return. And the other brought tea—so that once you drink, there is no chance of going back to it."

To interpret a dream, to try to break it, to erase it—this proves we have accepted the dream. In the same way, there is no question of "breaking" shraddhas. They are like dreams—you are clutching them, therefore they are. Let it become clear that no shraddha can ever become knowledge—and they will dissolve into the air, just as dreams dissolve upon awakening. Only this fact needs to be remembered: I am ignorant, and none of my knowledge is my own; I have accepted it from others and clutched it.

But we are taught: read the Gita every morning, read it daily, read it lifelong. And we are taught: memorize the Quran and you will become wise. We are taught: whoever can recite the Bible entire becomes a knower.

But even if he memorizes them thoroughly—even if in sleep he goes on babbling them—it is only words and mere memory, not knowledge. Between memory and knowledge there is a fundamental difference. Memory is a mechanical arrangement; knowledge is not mechanical. Memory comes from outside; whatever we remember comes from outside. Whatever we know arises from within.

A strange predicament has engulfed the world. Every week five thousand new books are printed. A time will come when there will be no room left for man—only books; to bury a man, we will have to bury him in books; to build houses, we will have to build them from books. What shall we do? Or we will have to teach man some new devices—to reduce his births—since there is no place left to keep books. If five thousand books appear each week, then sooner or later this condition will arise.

Books go on increasing, and man’s knowing grows thinner. Books and all education emphasize memory, not knowledge. We come out of the university trained in memory. We memorize a few things and repeat them all our lives.

Knowledge is a far bigger matter. And the deeper truth is: the more a person clings to memory, the more ignorant he will remain.

Only one who first realizes that memory is not knowledge can come to knowledge. Memory is only information—not knowing. Reading the Gita is informative, not knowledge. Memorizing the Quran is information, not knowledge. Information is not knowledge.

A man may read many books on love—and still not know love. A man may read treatises on swimming, give lectures, write books—and still not swim. It may well be that one who cannot explain what swimming is—cannot lecture, cannot write—knows how to swim. Knowing to swim is one thing; knowing about swimming is quite another.

There is an ancient Indian tale. A man boarded a boat to cross a river, carrying great scriptures with him. Midstream, he asked the boatman, "Have you ever read the scriptures?"

"Which scriptures?" asked the boatman.

"Have you not read the dharmashastras?"

"I had no opportunity," said the boatman.

The pundit said, "A quarter of your life has been wasted."

A little further he asked, "If you have not read the dharmashastras—fine. Have you read literature? Poetry?"

"No," said the boatman. "I have not."

"Another quarter gone," said the pundit.

Just then a storm arose. The boat began to sink; spray was coming in; water poured within. The boatman asked, "Punditji, do you know how to swim?"

"No," said the pundit. "I never had the chance."

"Then sixteen annas of your life are gone," said the boatman. "Now nothing can be done. Mine only eight annas are gone—but yours, all sixteen."

That day the pundit’s sixteen annas of life were indeed lost—he drowned; the boatman swam to shore.

So it is in life. In the ocean of life, those who sit upon the crutch of memory are the ones who drown. Life does not recognize memory; life recognizes knowing. Life heeds knowing, not memory. But we take memory for knowledge, and we are filled—with who knows what!

Let this fact become clear: memory is not knowledge—and your ignorance will become clear. Let it become clear that no shraddha can become my knowing—and you will not have to lift a sword to break shraddha. It will break—the matter finished. Life is wondrous: some things vanish merely by being seen. You do not have to drive out darkness with a lamp—lighting the lamp and then searching, "Where is the darkness?" Light the lamp, and darkness is gone. Darkness was never a presence; it was the absence of the lamp. Darkness has no positive presence.

So too, shraddhas and beliefs have no positive presence. They are only the absence of this awareness: that I am in ignorance, and another’s knowledge cannot be mine. Even if Mahavira stands before you, or Buddha or Christ—they cannot give you knowledge. Knowledge must be attained by the ceaseless search and inquiry of your own life-energy. It cannot be stolen, nor gotten free, nor received as a gift. There is no other way to obtain it. It must be lived and discovered by oneself.

Ignorance is ours; only our own knowledge can dissolve it. Ignorance is ours, another’s knowledge is another’s—the two will never meet. They cannot cut each other; there is no relation between them. Ignorance will remain, and "knowledge" will go on piling up in memory. The life-energy will remain in ignorance; the intellect will fill with knowledge. Another’s knowledge goes no deeper than memory. Only one’s own knowledge awakens and reveals the central consciousness of the Atman. That is why we see: whatever we plaster on from above does not go deep—it is not even skin-deep. A slightest scratch erases it.

There was a man, very hot-tempered and restless. His friends advised him—his anger caused him deep pain, suffering. At last, weary, he read books and consulted gurus. They told him, "As long as you remain in the world, unrest will remain. Leave the world, then you can be peaceful." He was stubborn, obstinate; this counsel pricked him. One day, in anger, he left the world and became a sannyasin. The man who initiated him gave him the name Shantinath—Lord of Peace—because he was so restless and angry and had renounced for the sake of peace.

He went to a large city. An old childhood friend came to see him. Shantinath had forgotten his friends—he had left the world. But the friend was still in the world and remembered him. He asked, "Sir, your name?"

"Shantinath," he said.

Two minutes later, some talk passed. The friend asked again, "Pardon me—your name?"

"Shantinath," he said.

After two more minutes, the friend asked again, "Pardon me—your name?"

He lifted his staff: "Did I not tell you—Shantinath!"

The friend said, "I understand—you have attained peace in full. I will go. I am an old friend; I came to see how deep the peace has gone. It is not even skin-deep—not even deeper than the skin."

Initiations taken from others—sannyas taken from others—have no value. Knowledge received from others does not go deep. Peace received from others cannot go any deeper than this. Your life-energy will still be the same—even if you change clothes and leave home. It makes no difference. You may flee to the corners of the world—you cannot flee yourself; you will be with you. Leaving all else, you will still be with you.

So one thing I wish to say this morning: only what is yours is truly yours—and only what is yours can bring revolution and transformation. Knowledge that comes from outside—morality, character that comes from outside—does not go deep. Scratch a little, the real man peeps out; the false man splits open. The real man is always within. In the world you can deceive everyone, not yourself.

Yet we deceive ourselves too. And at least in the search for truth, we go on deceiving ourselves. We are very clever—we do not just deceive, we succeed in deceiving. I repeat: we are very clever; not only do we deceive, we succeed in deceiving. Blessed are those who fail in this deception. For then it occurs to them that deceiving is futile. Taking another’s knowledge and posing as a knower—what greater deception is possible? Repeating the Gita and the Ramayana and posing as a knower—what greater deception?

A friend once told me of the Second World War. He was on a ship. A man sat opposite, playing cards alone day and night—he played both sides, the other party too, himself too—just by himself. These friends shared the same cabin and watched day and night. They saw that he cheated in his moves. He was playing alone—no other person—yet he cheated in his moves. He deceived "the other man" who did not even exist. When they saw again and again this cheating, they were astonished. That he played solitaire—already a madness; and that he deceived the one who was not there! There was no one—so he was deceiving himself. When they could bear it no longer, they said, "Stop! You’ve gone too far—you keep cheating."

He said, "I know everything. Do I not know I’m cheating? But I am so clever—no one can catch me; I am not caught. So clever I am. Of course I know I am cheating—but I’ve never been caught."

How will he be caught? When you cheat others, you may be caught—there are courts, police, the whole net of law; others’ eyes are upon you. But when you cheat yourself, no one falls upon you—there is no cause to be caught. That is why every kind of deception in the world is detected, but the deception of self-knowledge is never caught. It is the deepest deception; it is not caught because there is no one against it. You can go on being "self-realized"—knowing "God"—no police will arrest you, no court will try you. And you will find some fools who will collaborate in your deception. On this earth it is not difficult to find such fools—disciples will always be available, because great fools are always present. They will support your knowledge—clap and nod. You will deceive yourself and be deceived by them.

But one who truly knows—who has even a little integrity toward life—will surely understand that deceiving oneself has no meaning. Only life is wasted.

To take another’s knowledge as one’s own is a very subtle deception. But we all have embraced it. Not only embraced—we are ready to fight for it. People fall into disputes and fight—"my view!" Swords are drawn—over views. The strangest thing is: not one of your views is your own; all are others’. "My view" is utterly false. Which view is yours? Is there even one view you can call your own? If you search, you will find not a single one. When we are burdened by such alien views, our own experience cannot arise.

Therefore the first freedom needed for the search for truth is freedom from shraddha, and freedom from non-shraddha. A mind unbound, accepting its own ignorance—that is the first freedom. Without it no road opens ahead.

So this morning I pray: be free of shraddha, be free of non-shraddha, be free of belief. Be free of dogma, tradition, sect. Break these nets from the mind. And the moment you see, understand—these nets break. You need not go into the room and "fight" them—understanding itself breaks the net.

If the mind becomes free in this way—from shraddha and non-shraddha, from belief and disbelief—it becomes very clear, very simple, very natural. The preparation for search is done; the first step is complete.

This is the first point I have said this morning. Yes—tomorrow morning I will speak of the awakening of Vivek—discernment. Become free of shraddha—and Vivek can be born. When the mind is free of shraddha, Vivek awakens. I will speak of Vivek tomorrow. When Vivek awakens and there is freedom from shraddha—then, on the third day, I will speak of another small thing: if that too happens in one’s life—what we call Samadhi—the state of utterly unvexed, formless consciousness; objectlessness. Free from shraddha, with Vivek awakened—and before the mind all objects, all subjects, thoughts, imaginations dissolve—nothing remains before the mind. Free of shraddha, Vivek awakened—and before the mind remains only the infinite void, the hush, the peace, the silence. If these three are completed, man stands where God is. There his eyes open where truth is. There his life begins to ripple; the waves arise within—where the person dissolves and the Total—the all-being—becomes the meeting.

I will speak of Samadhi on the final day. Today I have spoken of freedom from shraddha. Tomorrow—how to awaken Vivek. And the day after, how Samadhi descends—how it arrives in our life. In these three steps we shall inquire. If you have questions, ask them in the evening—whatever facets I have missed will come through your questions and can be addressed.

Now we shall sit for the morning meditation. Before we sit, let me say two small things about meditation.

Meditation is an utterly simple thing. Whoever says meditation is difficult is speaking untruth. Nothing is simpler than meditation—because meditation is our very nature. What is of our nature is utterly simple. As it is simple for a rosebush to blossom roses—there is nothing difficult in that. Only provide the right conditions, and flowers will come. There is no difficulty in flowering. Flowers come with great ease. The bud forms and the petals open. So spontaneous, so effortless is the blooming that we never even come to know of it—no bands play, no news is printed in the papers, no announcement is made on the radio from Delhi—silently, flowers appear and blossom. Just as it is simple for a rosebush to give a rose, so it is just as simple for the flower of meditation to bloom in the human consciousness. Meditation is not something forced—it is very natural.

Meditation is very simple—but we are very crooked. Hence the trouble—hence the delay. Meditation is simple; we are complicated. Our complexity causes the disturbance; there is no obstacle to meditation. The rose could blossom right now—but we have cut its roots; or we have uprooted the bush and kept it out of the soil; or we have vowed never to water it; or we give poison instead of manure.

For the rose, flowering is very simple—no doubt about it. But if we reverse all the conditions and tell the rosebush to do a headstand—roots up, head down—then it becomes very difficult; no flowers will come. We are all doing headstands—life turned upside down—so the flower of meditation does not bloom in us.

Remember one thing: we are difficult; meditation is not. The work can be done—only our difficulty has to be dropped; that is no great matter. If meditation itself were difficult, we would have to learn a difficult thing. Learning a difficult thing is difficult—but dropping a difficulty is not difficult. Erasing something is not hard—building is hard. If meditation were difficult, we would have to prepare for hardship. But we are difficult—because our habits are wrong...

First: meditation. Second: by meditation I do not mean concentration. As you may have heard—concentration is a taut mind. If you force the mind, it will stretch, tense. After tension there will be a certain sadness, fatigue. Naturally—whenever you do a strained work—there will be backlash. From strain, the mind becomes disturbed. Those who do concentration become tight, taut people. They do not remain simple; they become more complex, more knotted. You must have seen—someone begins turning a mala, or chanting Rama-Rama—he becomes more irritable. Someone sits in a temple and concentrates before an idol—he becomes more angry, more violent, more harsh; his ego becomes denser. Naturally—these are the consequences of concentration. If concentration is taken too far, a man can even go mad. If the mind is stretched so far that the brain’s nerves begin to snap—he goes mad. Thousands of madmen...

This is not divine ecstasy. God has no frenzy; God has peace—bliss—radiance—but not lunacy. These are all madmen. Concentration has produced this result. Understand: in any nation where emphasis on concentration has been too great, the brain slowly grows dull. The energy and genius needed in that nation’s mind gradually diminishes.

This is the basic reason the genius of countries like India has declined. We did not give the brain rest; we tried to pull and tense it. The evil consequences of strain followed. India has invented nothing to this day—no discoveries, no creations. Three thousand years of such barren, impotent days—beyond accounting. So barren—nothing created in three thousand years, no new discovery, no new directions, no new science, no new art, no hidden corners of life explored, no unknown unveiled. We sit and repeat scriptures—over and over. And we keep talking of concentration.

Concentration is not meditation. Meditation is the state of supreme relaxation of the mind; concentration is the state of tension. Concentration is always against something; meditation is against nothing.

If I tell you: sit here and concentrate—on the name of Rama, or on Om, or on anything, anything will do—then as you concentrate, your mind must fight the rest of the world. A dog barks—"He has spoiled everything, my concentration is broken." Then you must fight the bark so it does not reach you; your name must go on, your Om must go on—and the dog must not be heard. A child cries—this must not be heard. You will fight the events occurring all around, the world standing around you—and try to fix your mind on one spot. You will grow weary; you will be tormented. Then you will say, "This is not within my capacity."

No—it is not within anyone’s capacity, except the mad. The mad can do it. Apart from the mad, it is no one’s work. Nor should it be—because if it happens, the consequences will be harmful.

Meditation does not mean stopping the mind on one thing against all others. By meditation I mean: let all things flow, and the mind be quiet—unprovoked—while things flow. If a dog barks, you are not a corpse that you will not hear. You are alive; the more alive you are, the more clearly you will hear. The more sensitive, receptive the mind, the more intensely it will hear. The quieter and unagitated the mind, the more distinctly it will hear—even a needle falling will be heard. In silence, even a small sound is heard; in noise, it cannot be heard.

A man’s house is on fire; he runs on the road toward it. You greet him with "Jai Ramji!"—he does not hear. Not because he has attained some supreme state, but because the brain is concentrated—fixed on one thing. Meet him the next day: "We met you on the way yesterday—remember?" "I remember nothing—who was seen, who not—I know nothing." The mind was concentrated. But concentration is a burden, a weight upon the mind. The mind should be calm and unexcited.

How will it be so?

I once stayed in a small rest house in a village. A friend was with me. The rest house was strange—all the dogs of the village perhaps rested there at night. They must have—it was a good spot. All night they made such a racket—and when one barks—the habit of dogs is almost like that of politicians—another barks in opposition, a third replies, a fourth counters. The scene was much like an election. My friend found it impossible to sleep. He said, "This is a calamity—no sleep can be had here."

I said, "The dogs do not even know you are here. They have no enmity with you—unless there is some karmic link from a past life. Sleep."

He said, "How can I? When they bark, all sleep is spoiled."

I said, "Their barking does not spoil sleep. Your resistance to their barking spoils it. Your inner insistence that they should not bark—that they should not be here—this insistence causes pain and breaks sleep. Disturbance is not produced by their barking, but by your insistence that they should not bark. Drop the insistence, drop the resistance. In your mind say, ‘You are dogs; it is your time to bark. It is my time to sleep. I sleep.’ Let them bark; let the sound echo. As long as you are awake, you will hear—do not hold opposition to it; let it resound." I said, "The opposite will happen—the same sound will lull you to sleep."

He agreed—he was intelligent, rarer than most—and slept; naturally. In the morning he said, "I am astonished. It never occurred to me that my resistance to the dogs was the obstacle. How can dogs be the obstacle? It is our resistance that creates it."

Non-resistance is the name of meditation. A non-resistant mind—a mind that does not resist—lets things come and go. The world is vast—things will come and go. Is it anyone’s contract that because you sit quiet, dogs must not bark, flies must not buzz, mosquitoes not arrive, no child cry, no woman speak? There is no such rule. Trees will sway, winds will come, leaves will fall and fly—there will be sounds, beyond your control. Those who wish to control it run away to jungles and mountains—Himalayas, Tibet. Wherever they go, nothing changes—the resistant mind goes with them. A bird will cry there, and they will say, "My meditation is disturbed."

A meditation that can be disturbed by anything is not meditation—it is concentration. Concentration is disturbed—because concentration means clinging to one thing and closing the door to everything else. Those other things begin to knock. In fact, the truth is this: when you do not try to concentrate, those things do not push so much. Naturally, when you try to concentrate, they push more.

The mind is like a current—let it flow. Events are happening all around; there is no need to become unconscious or numb, or to close the door against them. The peaceful mind has no opposition to anything—not to children, not to dogs, not to cats, not to anyone—it has no quarrel with the world. One who has no quarrel, who lets everything pass by as...

He is very near—and any day the door may open.

Here we shall do a small experiment of non-resistance over these three days. We will sit now. Sitting does not mean stiffening the body, making the spine ramrod straight and pulling up the head—that is resistance. Sit very naturally, as little children sit—at ease. If the head droops, let it droop; if the spine bends, let it bend. No spine, no head is a hindrance to meditation. Meditation is an inner state of consciousness; it has nothing to do with these. Sit so at ease, as if you are doing nothing—passing an empty time. Passing an empty time.

Let the eyelids slowly fall. This does not mean force them shut—resistance begins then. No—let the lids drop, as if a drowse comes and the lids fall. Do not close them—let them fall of themselves. Let-go—let them softly fall. Do not even have the feeling "I closed them." Let them fall. Leave the whole body loose—as if we are doing nothing, just resting. We have no habit of resting. Even when we sit idle, we do something—turn on the radio, pick up the newspaper—something. We do not know non-doing—and non-doing is wondrous. Nothing compares with the state of non-doing. The state of non-doing is called meditation. So we shall sit ten or fifteen minutes in non-doing. Loosen the lids, loosen the body. Then what to do?

That is all. If you do even this much, the work is done. Whatever sound is heard—no sound will remain—each will arise, echo, and pass. Do not oppose any sound—"Why did it echo?" Be aware of the sound—know it when it swells; know it as it softens; know it as it fades and vanishes. Like smoke that comes, fills, then grows thin—so will sounds be; so will events be around you. Oppose nothing. Let them come and go. If you remain peacefully a witness—not resisting, not opposing—just witnessing whatever comes, whatever goes—then within two moments you will find the mind becoming utterly quiet. It is agitated by resistance—remember—by nothing else. It is agitated by opposition—by fighting. When there is no fight, there is no agitation.

Lao Tzu, a Chinese fakir, has written: Blessed are those who do not fight, for none can defeat them. Blessed are those who do not fight, for none can defeat them. One who does not fight cannot be defeated. One who cannot be defeated—how can he be unhappy?

Do not fight. Meditation is not fight. Generally, it is fight—people sit in temples with malas, fighting. People sit in mountains, eyes closed, postures fixed—fighting. It is only fighting—nothing else. Meditation is the very opposite of fight. Do not fight. For a little while—no fight. No struggle is needed. If your leg aches, do not fight it—"I will hold it, I am meditating; if I move, the neighbor will think…" No—that is not meditation; you are stuck in the leg. If the leg aches, quietly change it. You are alive—that is why you know. If you die, you will not know; if a narcotic is injected, you will not know; if you fixate the mind so much in concentration that it is shut off from all else, then too you will not know. Or by constant effort you can train the leg to numbness—then you will not know—but that is pointless. If the leg aches, simply change it—only keep one thing in mind: do not resist, do not feel inwardly pained that you had to move the leg. Your leg is alive—therefore it reports; if it dies, it will not report.

You have heard of Mark Twain—great humorist, a fine man in America. One day, gossiping, laughing, telling high tales—suddenly he grew grave and sad. A friend asked, "What happened?"

He said, "It seems my leg has become paralyzed. Ten years ago doctors told me there was a danger—someday your leg may be paralyzed."

They asked, "How do you know?"

He said, "I have been pinching it for a long time—but I feel nothing."

A lady beside him said, "Pardon me; out of modesty I kept silent—you have been pinching me."

He had been testing—and kept pinching the wrong person. He thought, "My leg is gone—I feel nothing."

This not-feeling of the leg or the body is not a good state. You should feel. The more inner awareness, the more you will feel. Do not worry—quietly change the leg. Non-resistant—no opposition—quietly change. If the neck tires, moves forward or back—let it go. Let the body do what it will—without any opposition. Keep only this in mind: I will not oppose anything. I will sit silently. I will let happen what is happening. I will not hold onto anything—"let this happen"—I will allow what is happening to happen. If breezes come—fine; if not—fine. If someone shouts—fine; if not—fine. I accept everything—total acceptability. I oppose nothing. Sit in this mood for ten minutes.

So, it will be good if you sit a little apart from one another—because you may be in this mood, but your neighbor may not be. A little distance, so no one touches anyone. Sit comfortably at such a distance. Yes, you can sit outside too.

You too sit a little apart—no one touching anyone. Sit just as is naturally comfortable for you. Space is less here, so I ask you to sit. At home, you can do it lying down—there is no question of lying or sitting. The question is the inner state of mind. Whether lying, standing, sitting, in an armchair—it makes no difference. The big thing is to sit utterly at ease—simple, joyous.

So I take it you are not touching one another. Some will still be touching, thinking, "What’s the harm?"—sitting anyway.

Now gently let go the eyelids—let the eyes close. Do not close them—let them close. Gently release the lids—let the eyes be closed. Make a feeling that the lids have been released—released, they will gently close—with no pressure. If you release the eyes very gently, with that release you will feel a lightness within. More than half our tension in life is the tension of taut eyes.

Let the eyes go utterly loose—let them close. Sit utterly still. No opposition to anything—none. We are not doing some great austerity—otherwise the very idea begins resistance. No austerity—we are resting. Complete serenity.

As soon as you begin to be quiet, you will begin to notice the breath within. The coming and going of breath will be felt. When it comes, you will know; when it goes, you will know. Breezes will stir—you will know. Far off, cows walk—bells ring—you will know. Let whatever sounds arise all around—let them resonate in peace—and quietly watch them. Oppose nothing. Just listen, quietly listening to all the sounds that are happening. Listening and listening, the mind will grow quiet—utterly quiet.